


Jerkface 9000

by J_Q



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (I adjusted events from the show to fit my needs), Alcohol, Best Friends, Canon Related, Day 5, Friends to Lovers, GW2020, M/M, Mentions of bipolar, mentions of Monica - Freeform, mentions of caleb and trevor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 08:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25467478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Q/pseuds/J_Q
Summary: Sometimes your bartender serves more than just drinks.When I read the quote below from the Parallel 49 Brewing website about one of their signature beers, Jerkface 9000, I knew it was going to be Mickey’s favorite beer.“Hey you! Yeah... I'm talking to you, buddy. How about you grab a bottle of this Mosaic hopped American wheat beer and cram it down your pie hole. Did I hurt your feelings? Too friggin' bad. When it's this good, you ain't gotta be nice about it.”For Gallavich Week 2020 Day 5: Best Friends
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 82
Kudos: 334
Collections: Gallavich Week 2020





	Jerkface 9000

“Gimme the strongest beer you got on tap,” Ian demanded as soon as his ass hit the hard bar stool. He was still reeling from tonight’s events and needed to take the edge off before he did something stupid, or more accurately self-destructive. The last 18 months of his life were basically a how-to manual on the topic.

From his position behind the bar, the dark haired bartender glanced at him, eyes roaming his face. “ID?”

“Seriously?”

The guy shrugged, indifferent to Ian’s chagrin that he looked young for his age. “If you wanna drink.”

Ian yanked his wallet from his jacket pocket, tilting his chin to make sure the bartender knew he wasn’t impressed, before dropping his driver’s license onto the polished wood of the bartop. The guy picked up the card, studying it, while Ian studied the tattoos on his fingers.

“Well, Ian, we got six drafts on tap at the moment.” He tossed the license in Ian’s direction. “If you’re looking to forget your name quickly then I’d go with the Belgians. They know their beer.”

“Whatever you say.” He gestured to the line of colorful beer handles. “You’re the expert.”

He pulled the first beer handle down and amber liquid shot into the frosty glass he’d gotten from the mini-freezer. The thin layer of foam sloshed precariously close to the rim of the glass as he carried it to Ian’s coaster. “Not just on beer, man.”

After studying Ian for a moment, his hand swept around the dim room, past all the wood, brass and mirror that had probably been installed before Ian was born. It continued past the old guys sitting at the end of the bar, the couple arguing in a back booth and the punks playing pool. “Expert on the people who come in here to forget shit too. You’ll probably fit right in,” he teased.

Ian ignored the jab, fearing it may end up being his fate to warm a bar stool for the rest of his life since he’d seemed destined to get the worst of his family’s DNA. Instead he sipped the beer, eyebrows rising in appreciation as he chugged a third of it. “That’s really good,” he decided, licking at his upper lip.

His new bartender buddy tapped his own upper lip. “Missed a spot,” he said before moving away from Ian and stopping across the bar from the server who laid her tray between them and shot off a complicated order.

While the bartender lined up glasses, Ian finished his beer, feeling the alcohol immediately start fucking with his nervous system, while he remembered what had brought him in the place to begin with.

Cheating liars.

That thought clanged around his already fucked up head, but thankfully with less force than it would if he’d been perfectly sober. Unfortunately, his lowered inhibitions also convinced his better judgment to order a second beer. Stretching an arm along the bartop, he slid his empty glass toward the bartender, who’d just finished loading the server’s tray with assorted drinks.

“Another.” He could already hear the slight slurring of his words and once again cursed his DNA, which seemed determined to take away everything he loved including goddamn beer.

The bartender tucked a fresh glass under the tap, pulling back the handle and Ian blinked at the play of muscle along his forearm. His eyes traveled to the bicep covered in thin, black t-shirt material, noting how it strained a little against the muscle beneath. His gaze continued until it met the blue eyes watching him closely.

The intensity of the look made Ian self conscious because he was well aware that his blood didn’t mix well with alcohol and he wasn’t always aware when he’d crossed a line. He looked at himself in the tinted glass behind the bottles of fancy liqueur even though it was too dark to really see his slightly bloodshot eyes and paler than usual skin.

As much as oblivion sounded wonderful, he decided to sip the second beer and not push his luck since he still needed to find his way home. It was unlikely that any of his siblings would be pounding the pavement looking for him if he didn’t come home since he'd been hellbent the last while on driving them away. If they looked at him like he'd lost his mind one more time, he was going to _literally_ lose his mind.

Pushing that thought aside, he cleared his throat. “So how’d you know I was here to drown my sorrows?” he asked as his beer arrived along with the brunet. “And not just to wet my whistle, as they say.”

“No one says that, man.”

“Yeah, they do.”

“Nope.”

Pouting, Ian ignored him. “Okay, Mr Mind Reader, how ‘bout that guy?” Ian pointed at a lone figure leaning on a tall table near the men’s room. “What’s his story?”

“Unemployment.”

Ian glanced at the middle aged black man again. “Oh,” he whispered, suddenly sad.

“It’s life.”

Ian knew about _life_ all too well, and he’d come in here to forget his so-called life. Moving on, he shifted his attention to the pair of old guys sitting at the end of the bar, watching the silent sports commentary on the little TV. “Them?”

“Life without parole.”

“Huh?”

“Drunks.”

“Oh.” Another wave of pity washed over Ian along with a healthy dose of fear. Logically, one of the Gallagher kids was going to end up warming a barstool, and he hadn’t eliminated himself from that list quite yet. Staring into his half empty second beer, he muttered, “This place is fucking depressing.”

The brunet shrugged. “Ay, the reason these guys are here is because of the shit that happens out there.” He pointed at the front door. “That place is depressing.”

While a lot of Ian’s shit happened in the outside world, most if happened inside his own body, a place he could never run from as hard as he’d tried the last couple years.

“Take you for instance,” the bartender continued, resting a hip against the back counter and fiddling with the drying towel in his hand while he studied Ian’s face. “Relationship troubles.”

Ian’s eyes widened as the beer glass paused an inch from his mouth. “How’d you know?”

“Told ya. Been working here awhile.”

“How long?”

“I served my first drink as soon as I could see over the counter.”

They shared their first tentative smile. “Yet you ID’d me?”

“Didn’t say I had my first drink then.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled.

“Me too.”

“Fucking parents.”

Ian lifted his glass in a salute. “Understatement of the year.”

“So you gonna tell me all your troubles?” he asked Ian, arms crossed in a way that clearly showed he worked out. It reminded Ian that he used to like to work out too. “Well?” he prompted when Ian continued to stare.

“Seriously, you wanna know?”

“Part of the job description, man.”

While Ian took a sip, the server arrived again, transferring empties onto the bartop. Ian looked closer at her this time. She was a fair bit older than his sister Fiona but her mess of dark hair and big smile were almost eerily familiar. “Gonna run out for a smoke,” she said. “Got it covered, Mick?”

“Sure.” He waved her off, eyes back on Ian. “I got a sob story to hear.”

“Ha ha,” Ian said without mirth. “ _Mick_.”

“It’s Mickey actually.” He tossed the server her pack of smokes from where they were stored behind the bar. “So you telling me you don’t have a story?”

Ignoring the question because it was just dumb relationship bullshit, he challenged Mickey instead. “Why would you wanna hear my bullshit? Don’t you hear enough about people’s problems?”

“I’m a great listener. Been known to solve a few of those problems in my time.”

Ian perked up at that response since he sounded so genuine. “Oh,” but still he hesitated. He was unsure how much to share since he wasn’t really used to sharing any of his personal shit, so he decided to give just the basics. “Caught my...boyfriend cheating.”

“Ouch.”

Since he didn’t detect any censure over the word boyfriend, Ian continued. “Tonight, like just outside the train station up the street.” The beer buzz kept the anger and humiliation from running rampant, so he took another sip.

“Take you by surprise or were you suspicious?”

“No, apparently, I’m blind. My brother’s not though,” he explained, kinda feeling a little better now that he was talking about it instead of just replaying it in his head. “So I decided to follow him tonight.”

“To confront the prick?”

“Yeah.” The awkward scene replayed in his mind. Ian’s shock not only that he was cheating, but also over who he was cheating with. “He said...it wasn’t really cheating cause it was with a woman.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I wish. Turns out he’s a douchebag.” Ian chewed his lip. “Right?”

“Right what?” Mickey asked, eyebrows raised in question. “You asking if he’s a douchebag?”

“Yeah, I mean, he is?” He couldn’t keep the statement from becoming a question though because he seemed incapable of not second guessing himself. Like once he started doubting his own mind, he couldn’t seem to stop doubting every thought that entered it.

Mickey tossed the towel on the counter behind him, so he could apparently study Ian like a specimen under his microscope. “You really asking me that? Didn’t you just say he cheated?”

“Yeah. With a woman.”

Eyes wide waiting for the punchline, Mickey eventually shook his head. “I suppose it’s hard or whatever to have your heart broken so you end up having dumb fucking thoughts.”

Ian could only laugh at the bluntness that forced him to acknowledge that doubting himself over this was indeed a dumb fucking thought because his so-called boyfriend had sex with someone else. Plain and simple. “Anyway, my heart isn’t broken.”

“He cheated and you came in here to drink your face off, sounds like a broken fucking heart to me.”

Ian shrugged. “Nah, I’m just pissed he fucking lied, and now I gotta get my shit from his place.”

One of the old drunks held up his empty and Mickey tapped the counter next to Ian’s beer. “That’s why I stay the fuck away from relationships.”

“A bachelor, huh?”

“Till I die, man.” He bent down to the mini-fridge for a frosted glass, but kept his eyes on Ian. “Till I fucking die.”

“Yeah, I hear that.”

******

“You think people can be 100% gay or straight?”

“Hi Ian.”

“Sorry, hi Mickey.”

Ian was back in Mickey’s bar, three nights later ready to unload another pile of bullshit onto the bartender’s shoulders. He was a little worried that after one night he might already be coming to need the guy’s shoulders as a place to store all his problems.

“Here to wet your whistle...as no one says?” he asked with a smile, reminding Ian that this was first and foremost a drinking establishment not a therapist sofa.

“Yes, my whistle is definitely dry, so what’d ya recommend?”

“You wanna enjoy a beer this time not drown your sorrows?” After getting Ian’s nod, he added, “Then as your expert, I suggest Jerkface 9000.”

Ian snickered, expecting a joke. “Seriously?”

“Look, Ian, I never kid about beer.”

Ian felt about a million times better already, and he hadn’t unloaded a single trouble or had a drop of alcohol. “Well, then wet my whistle, barkeep.”

And they shared their first laugh.

“So what’s this urgent ass question you couldn’t wait to ask me?”

Watching the now familiar process that Mickey went through to serve the perfect beer, Ian repeated his question. “You think people can be 100% gay or straight?”

“Sure, why not? Or they could be something in between or fucking none of the above.” When Ian just stared at him hoping for more but unsure what more even looked like, Mickey continued. “Experiment if ya want, but you’re only gonna doubt yourself if you let someone get in your head, man,” he paused, lips pursed like he was making a decision, weighing the pros and cons. “I let people, well a person, get in my head about _that_ , until I grew up and realized that it wasn’t my head that was the fucking problem. It was his.”

“ _That_? You’re...gay?”

“100, no make that 110%.” His eyebrows drove the point home. “I like what I like, man.”

Ian sipped his Jerkface 9000, tucking his interest in what exactly Mickey liked into the recesses of his mind where he intended to keep it.

“And you just stopped letting this person get in your head? Simple as that?”

“First step was to accept it myself,” he said looking around the bar. “It was my Dad so it’s kinda fucked up, but mostly we just ignore each other now.”

Ian didn’t have homophobia within his family to deal with, so he had to thank his DNA for that at least. Before he could respond, Mickey hollered at the server.

“Yo, Kass, Justin Beiber over there needs you to call him a cab.”

Most of the bar, including Ian, watched the young, blond kid lay his head on table, narrowly missing his empty glass.

“I’m not his mother, Mick.”

“You sure? The late 90s were kind of a blur for you.” He laughed when she shot him a finger then he returned his attention to Ian and their unfinished discussion. “So why you asking dumb fucking questions, again?”

“Someone said--”

“Who?” he interrupted, chewing the side of his lip like he knew the answer and didn’t like it.

“The cheater.”

“Mhm. So did you run into douchebag when you got your shit from his place?”

Ian picked at the corner of the coaster where the condensation had soaked into the paper. “Yeah. It was awkward as fuck.”

“Let me guess. While you were packing your toothbrush and tighty whiteys, he suggested that you weren’t totally gay.”

“Basically, yeah. Said I should try sleeping with a woman before I labeled myself.”

Ian looked away from those assessing blue eyes since it sounded so stupid now that he’d shared it all with a bartender he barely knew. Maybe some people did need to experiment to know, but Ian had never been one of those people. He liked cock. A lot.

“Shit, man, did you follow through on what douchebag said?” Mickey asked, coming to stand directly in front of Ian.

“Not really.”

“That’s not putting my mind at ease.” His elbows rested on the bar top when Ian persisted in staring at his drink rather than see the disappointment in the other man’s face.

“Well, I tried to do it.”

“What the fuck? This guy using mind tricks or some shit?”

“I just...I don’t know.” He felt the old familiar burst of shame explode in his gut whenever he remembered what he’d wanted from this life and how different that was from where he’d ended up. “I guess I thought he had his shit together, ya know? He’s a firefighter, an artist. He’s, like, smart and worldly or whatever.”

“He sounds perfect.”

Ian smiled down into his beer at the sarcastic tone. “I think we’ve established that he’s not, but he did encourage me to go back to school. Study to be an EMT.”

“Fine. We’ll give him a free pass to do whatever the fuck he wants because he’s heard of EMT school. Shit, Google coulda told you that.”

Ian finally looked up, and they were close, way closer than they’d ever been before. Close enough to see that Mickey had a freckle dotting his upper lip. “You suggesting I hook up with Google?” he teased.

“Probably better off, Gallagher?”

“Gallagher?” Ian frowned in confusion. “How do you know my name?”

“You paid with your fucking bank card.”

“Oh,” he laughed at himself for thinking Mickey had sought out information about him.

“Anyway, _Gallagher_. Back to my question. Did you or did you not bang a chick?”

Ian sat up straight. “I tried. Met her on the train after my shift mopping floors at the university,” and fighting with his asshole brother. “We went to her place. Actually got naked but then I pretended I got an emergency text message.”

“Christ, that’s a relief. When’d this happen?” Mickey’s eyes left Ian’s face briefly to watch the drunk kid stagger toward the front door. Getting a nod from Kass, his eyes returned to Ian, waiting for a response. It was really such a new experience for Ian to have someone so completely into what was happening in his life that he wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

“Like just before I got here.”

“Tonight?!”

Eyes on the man’s expressive brows, Ian nodded but held back that it was knowing he could show up at Mickey’s bar that had given him the clarity to halt what he was about to do. Without having to think too hard about it, he’d known what Mickey’s response would be and he knew he could trust it.

When Mickey leaned in, sniffing exaggeratedly, Ian whispered, “What are you doing?”

“Smelling for pussy.”

“Jesus,” Ian hissed, looking up and down the bar to make sure their conversation was private. “You don’t fucking believe me?”

Mickey shrugged. “People lie to their bartenders, man.”

“Well, I’m not lying. Plus you’re--”

Mickey stared at him, waiting. “I’m what?”

“Nothing.” Ian felt his ears heat up and he slurped his beer, eyes shifting left and right.

“Spit it the fuck out, or I’m going to assume you were about to say that I’m the hottest piece of ass you’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Ian giggled, choking a little as he tried to make it more masculine sounding. “Actually, I rarely see you from the waist down so…”

“Mhm.” He waved at Ian to stop changing the subject.

“It’s dumb, Mickey. For a second, I thought you were my friend not just my bartender.”

Mickey licked his lips, and Ian was completely unable to read his expression which kicked his self doubt into action. It’s not like they were ever gonna do anything other than chat with a bar between them, which was the goddamn definition of a bartender.

“Sure, Gallagher. We’re friends.”

“We are?” It slipped out before he could stop it.

“You change your fucking mind?”

“NO!” He hurried to reply. “I just wasn’t...this is...is this weird for you?”

“What? To have a friend? I’m not a robot bartender, man.”

Ian’s smile returned. “No, I know. I mean is it weird to have to deal with drunk customers wanting more than just your bartending services?”

“Yeah, it’s fucking weird.”

“Oh.”

“Hold onto your skirt, Gallagher. It’s a good weird, okay?”

Kass arrived with some empty glasses, interrupting their moment. Ian watched her clear the tray onto the bartop and accept a wet cloth from Mickey, who lined the glasses up near the washing station. He had an order to fill and a couple of women sat down at the bar near Ian, laughing loudly. They ordered white wine and Ian steadily finished his beer, feeling the temperature in the room rise as his blood thudded through his body, heavy and constant.

“Hey, Mickey,” he half yelled.

“I’m right here, man, not on Mars.”

“Sorry,” he giggled a little at that thought, but Mickey leaned against the back counter, where he could watch Ian and fiddle with the drying cloth.

“You certainly aren’t gonna win any drinking games, are you?”

Ian frowned into his nearly empty glass, watching the foam bubbles dissipate. “Medication.”

“Uh, well, that’s pretty stupid then, Ian.”

“I’m often stupid.”

“Or human.”

“Guess.”

The towel swiped over the bartop, pulling Ian’s attention away from his empty glass and up to the blue eyes.

“How ‘bout I cut ya off after one from now on?” Mickey suggested with a tilt of his head.

“I guess that’s a good idea. _Friend_.”

“Don’t push your fucking luck.” But a smile touched his lips.

******

“What’s the normal heart rate for a school aged child?”

Ian smiled every time he knew the answer with utter certainty. “Between 70 and 120.”

“Look who's so smart...and worldly,” Mickey teased, tossing the flashcard on the pile and picking up the next one, while Ian anticipated the question. He’d been coming to the bar now for a couple of weeks, and today he’d needed to get out of the Gallagher house to study for his upcoming NREMT exam. What better place to study than a noisy corner bar with low lighting and endless beer on tap?

“Hey,” Kass said from where she stopped at Ian’s elbow. In addition to Ian’s questions, they’d been testing Mickey all evening trying to stump him over cocktail ingredients, but he was unstumpable. “What goes into a Harvey Wallbanger?”

“Ohh,” Ian snickered. “His--”

But Mickey cut him off. “No one’s interested in your lame ass jokes, Gallagher.”

“Ass jokes is right!” His grin was ear to ear. “But seriously, Mick, what goes into Harvey Wallbanger?”

“Vodka, OJ and Galliano, but who fuckin’ cares. No one’s ordered one since the Kennedy administration.”

“Party pooper,” Ian complained. “Kass, could I have a Harvey Wallbanger, please?”

“Hell, no, he can’t,” Mickey half yelled. “He’s already had his beer.”

“Then I’ll have a virgin Harvey Wallbanger.” This almost knocked Ian off his chair as he fought to contain all the lame ass jokes that came to mind.

“Sure,” Mickey agreed. “So basically, he’s asking for a glass of OJ.”

Ian pouted.

“Fine. Keep studying and I’ll make you something fancy...and booze free.”

Happy now, Ian picked up the next flashcard. “The normal glucose levels in a fasting adult.” He bit his lip in thought, mind overloaded with details. Peeking at the back of the card, he groaned.

“Got it wrong, Einstein?” Mickey teased as he poured a bunch of different juices into a tall glass of ice.

“Yeah, I was close though.”

“Close probably ain’t gonna cut it.”

Ian’s eyes shot to his face, panic spiking his system. “What if I fail?”

“The world will come crashing to a fuckin’ halt.”

“Jesus.”

“Way I figure it. Go with the worst case scenario and anything else will seem good in comparison.” He topped the drink with slices of several different fruits then set the colorful mocktail in front of Ian. “But most likely, you’ll rewrite the test.”

“I guess,” Ian agreed, sipping his drink. “Mm, this is yummy.”

Mickey grinned at him, making Ian narrow his eyes suspiciously. “You like it, huh? It’s called The Cinderella.”

Kass laughed from where she was ringing in an order, and Mickey looked smug at the dig to Ian’s masculinity, but Ian was just happy to be part of the fun. “Now I need a Prince Charming.”

Mickey snorted. “Maybe Harvey Wallbanger is free.”

“Says our confirmed bachelor?” Kass looked hard at Mickey, who pointedly ignored her, leaving Ian feeling like he’d missed an important part of the conversation.

“Alright, brainiac, pass me those cards,” Mickey eventually said. “Clearly, you don’t know glucose levels for shit.”

Ian gladly slid the stack toward Mickey, not really caring for the moment if he passed or failed because it seemed insignificant compared to feeling like he finally belonged somewhere. “Thanks, Mick.”

“Sure, what are...friends for?”

******

Ian flew through the front door, excitement bubbling over now that he was able to share his news with the one person he really wanted to tell. “Mickey!”

He scanned the bar, spotting most of the regulars and a few new faces. Kass was working the cash register with no Mickey in sight. For a moment, he allowed himself to sink into negative thoughts, sure that his lucky streak was coming to an end. Since his first mental health obstacle at 17, he’d been living with a sense of doom hanging over his head, but now he realized that the last two months had been more or less doom free.

However, apparently it only took walking into the bar and not seeing Mickey slinging drinks or fiddling with the drying cloth or shaking his head at something a patron was saying. He was always there when Ian arrived, and now he realized that, maybe, he’d failed to see Mickey as having more going on than bartending and being Ian’s friend.

“Out back,” Kass said, turning back to her screen. “Smoking.”

“Oh.” Ian felt stupid, having stood at the door like a fucking lost puppy whose master didn’t have time to take him for a walk. All his other doubts were kicking his self-esteem to the curb. Maybe Mickey wanted some fucking privacy, not to have to listen to bullshit from yet another needy bitch.

“He just went out, so he’ll be a bit. Probably best to head on back,” Kass continued when Ian’s feet remained glued to the floor.

Well, he was here and probably Mickey would be okay with sharing his smoke break with Ian. They were friends, after all. At least Ian fucking hoped it was a two way street, and to make sure, he decided that tonight they’d focus on Mickey not Ian.

A blast of cold winter air hit Ian as soon as he opened the back door. “Mickey?

“Gallagher?”

The back door banged shut as he pulled out his pack of Marlboros. “Kass said you were on a smoke break.”

“Freezing my balls off, more like it.” Mickey waved his smoke. “Why don’t you help me finish this one so we can head back in?”

Now that his eyes had readjusted to the nearly moonless evening, he could see that Mickey hadn’t put on a jacket to have his smoke even though spring hadn’t arrived yet. “Jesus, Mick, why aren’t you wearing your coat?”

“Thought I’d be quick,” he said, voice trembling slightly as he shivered in the corner between the recycling bin and the cement wall, out of the cold wind at least.

Ian shrugged out of his heavy winter coat, holding it out to Mickey, who laughed then inhaled deeply. “Uh, no, Gallagher. You’re Cinderella not fucking Prince Charming.”

“Shut up and put it on, or I’ll put it on for you.” He accepted the offered cigarette, but continued to hold the coat up. “I mean it.”

With a single head shake, Mickey snagged the coat and draped it over his shoulders. His shivering stopped immediately. “Still fucking warm from your body heat,” he mumbled.

Ian felt those words gather heat in his own body for some reason, so he focused on the smoke, inhaling with all the concentration of a new smoker. They stood in silence for a minute, until Ian remembered that he wanted to learn more about the other man.

“So, um, how was your day?”

“My day?”

“Yeah, how was it?”

“Good.”

“Good how?”

“Good, like the minimum number of people pissed me off.” Little puffs of air released from between his lips each time he spoke. Ian watched it in low key fascination.

“What did you do before work?”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why? Can’t I be interested in your life?”

“I guess.”

“Okay,” Ian said exasperated. “What did you do before work?”

“Visited my brother in prison.”

“What? Really? I didn’t know you had a brother in prison.”

“I didn’t have time to send out _my brother’s in the slammer_ greeting cards to all my friends, man.”

That hit Ian in a way he didn’t like and his insecure, petty monster reared its head. “If you did, how many cards would you have to send out?”

Mickey took the final pull from the smoke then snuffed it under his boot. “You trying to find out how many fucking friends I have, Gallagher?”

He moved toward the back door, Ian trailing behind, wondering how he’d managed to turn this conversation toward himself so quickly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as the back door slammed behind them.

Mickey tossed Ian his coat before stopping at the tiny employee bathroom to wash his hands. “Let’s just say that I wouldn’t keep Hallmark in business.”

Perversely, that statement made Ian happy then immediately sad because he clearly had a lot to learn about being a friend. But at the moment, Mickey was headed back to the lounge where near chaos had erupted while they were out back smoking. Every table was busy, most of the bar stools were occupied and Kass was loading her tray with as many drinks as it would hold.

“Welfare checks are out,” Mickey explained. “That’s why I was on my smoke break early. Gonna be swamped for the rest of the night.”

Ian laid his jacket over the only available bar stool as he watched Mickey slide into action, taking over the bar so Kass could deal with the tables. She grabbed her loaded tray, unloading then quickly loading it with empties while taking the new patrons’ orders. On instinct, Ian grabbed the cloth hanging over the sink edge and followed her to the new table, wiping up spills. He took the tray from her and emptied it at the sink before heading to the next table.

“Fuck are you doin’, Gallagher?” Mickey asked on his return trip. “You worried you’re gonna fail that exam and need a new caree--wait fuck, you wrote your exam today!”

He set the bottle of tequila on the counter and planted himself in front of Ian, who couldn’t keep the stupid grin off his face. “I actually only got one answer wrong, Mick.”

“Holy shit,” he spit out as his palm cupped Ian’s cheek. “I fucking knew you’d kick ass.”

Ian tipped his head slightly toward the warm hand and the physical touch, realizing for the first time that it had been months since he’d had any kind of physical intimacy and he’d barely even noticed. “Because you helped me.”

“Bullshit.” His hand fell away and Ian felt a bit lost without it there to anchor him. “Just tell me it wasn’t that fucking glucose question.”

“Hey! You getting my shots or you gonna make out with your boyfriend all night?”

Ian watched Mickey’s face morph from relaxed happiness to cold fury as he turned toward the dude leaning against his bar. “I think I must have misheard you,” he said softly but with no less of a warning.

“Uh, yeah, um, I’ll just be at my table.” The middle aged asshole slinked away, and Kass snickered, dropping her tray on the bartop to wait for the shots Mickey had been about to pour.

“Gallagher passed his EMT thing,” he told her.

She leaned over the bar until she could reach Ian’s cheek, placing a palm exactly where Mickey’s had just been, only she used her grip to pull his face forward. Without preamble, she locked her lips on his in a relatively chaste kiss. “Congrats!”

“The fuck, woman,” Mickey snapped. “You’re here to serve drinks not molest the patrons.”

“Mhm,” she said vaguely. “Keep that in mind, Milkovich.”

Ian watched her lift the tray of shots off the bar and saunter away, but his mind was stuck on her comment. “Yeah, Milkovich, no molesting the patrons.”

“Fuck off and get back to work,” Mickey smirked. “Table six needs bussed.”

His eyes dared Ian to obey, and Ian wanted nothing more than to follow through. Three hours later, he set the last clean beer glass on the mat next to the washing station where a couple dozen other glasses were air drying.

“How about I make you a Cinderella, Cinderella?” Mickey asked after locking the front door and turning off the neon “OPEN” sign.

“Fuck, I feel like the real Cinderella tonight,” Ian complained, making his way to one of the booths along the back wall. “I’ll just take a nap here.”

“Mick can wake you with a kiss. Ain’t that right, Mick?” Kass said, laughing when she got a towel in the face.

“That’s Sleeping Beauty,” Ian explained, drawing on his little sister’s Disney years. “Cinderella has a glass slipper.”

“A shoe made of glass?” Mickey griped, setting the mocktail and a draft on the table then sliding in across from Ian. “No wonder Prince Charming dumped her ass.”

“Have either of you ever seen a Disney movie?” he chuckled.

“Yeah, sure, I had a Disney marathon just last weekend.”

“Well, maybe I’ll make you sit through them one night, so your ignorance won’t be such an embarrassment,” Ian decided, sipping his drink and grinning happily.

“I’ll need a bottle of rum to keep me company.”

“My company won’t be enough for you?”

Kass tapped Mickey’s shoulder on her way past, getting his attention and keeping it a beat longer than seemed necessary before speaking. “I’m outta here. I’ll do close tomorrow night, okay?” she said.

Once again, Ian was left feeling like an outsider in whatever conversation they weren’t having.

“Yeah,” Mickey agreed, and they watched her gather her things. “You got a ride? Bunch of fucking morons out there last night.”

“Saw the vomit on the sidewalk,” she said. “My ride’s outside. Bye boys.”

Mickey returned his attention to Ian. “Living above a bar has its drawbacks, man. Some drunks think it’s a bed and fucking breakfast.”

“You live upstairs?” Ian tipped his head up to look at the ceiling, imagining Mickey up there. _Living_.

Mickey chucked around the swing of beer he’d taken. “Not as magical as you think, Gallagher.”

But Ian was quiet for a bit as he processed that information, unsure why it unsettled him so much.

“So, you’re a fucking EMT now, huh?” Mickey asked, pulling Ian out of his thoughts.

“I guess I am but I don’t have a job yet, so technically, I’m still a janitor named Dav.”

“I won’t ask.”

“Good call.”

“So will Dav be applying for a new job?”

“Gonna start looking first thing tomorrow.”

“They’ll be lucky to have you, man.”

Ian felt that heat fill his body again and realized that praise from Mickey was like a balm to his shattered self-esteem. He wanted to make sure that Mickey knew how important that was to him. “Thanks for the last few months.” They made some slightly awkward eye contact before Ian continued. “Having you as my friend has really helped. Like more than you know actually.”

Mickey broke the eye contact, lifting his beer to his lips then, with a swipe over his mouth, sliding out of the booth. “That’s great, Ian. Glad my...friendship has helped. Now I gotta take care of cash and shit. I’m beat.”

Ian stood too. “Right, of course. I should go cause I really do want to get up early while I still have the momentum of passing the exam to fuel me.”

“Good thinking.”

“Yeah. Okay, I’ll see you...soon then?” He tried to make eye contact, but Mickey was already headed back toward the bar and Ian’s attention moved to the ceiling again.

“You know where to find me.”

******

“Nearly midnight, Gallagher.” Mickey looked at the Budweiser clock on the wall near the door as Ian walked through it. “Late night for you.”

“Yeah,” Ian said with a sigh, planting himself in his usual seat. “Can I get a real Harvey Wallbanger?”

“You still on medication?”

Ian felt the rage tear a strip through his chest, and he clenched his teeth to avoid biting Mickey’s head off but it still leaked a little. “I showed you my fucking ID.”

“True,” Mickey replied not looking like he was particularly worried about Ian’s legal right to drink. “But you also gave me permission to cut you off, so answer the _fucking_ question.”

“Yes, goddamn it. I’ll be on fucking meds until I’m dead, or at least like 50.”

“So then, no Wallbanger for you, kid.” He leaned closer to Ian, those strong forearms resting on the bar. Ian stared at the sprinkle of light hair that covered the pale skin. “Plus your breath smells like maybe you been drinking already.”

Ian shrugged.

“Been cheating on me, Gallagher?”

“What?” Ian looked up in surprise, feeling those words in all the same places he’d felt the rage earlier only this left him in a slight panic.

“With another bar?”

“Oh,” Ian shrugged again. “Yeah, I guess.”

He watched Mickey fill a beer glass halfway with a pale ale then set it in front of Ian. “Jerkface,” he teased.

Instead of laughing though, Ian picked up the half filled glass. “Thanks, _mom_.”

“Look, man, friends give a shit, okay?”

“Sorry,” Ian mumbled, feeling like an actual jerkface because Mickey had always been his friend, plain and simple, no agenda, no expectations. Just friendship.

“Who peed in your corn flakes anyway? Thought you were over the moon with your new job and all.”

“Was. Then I went for drinks with everyone from work tonight,” he paused to look at Mickey again because it had a kind of soothing effect. Like it short-circuited his brain a little, interrupting his negative thought pattern. “I mean _drink_. I only had one beer. Sipped it like a fucking pussy.”

Mickey chuckled and began his usual routine of fiddling with the drying cloth as he settled in for Ian’s latest sob story. “There’s more to being a man than drinking, Ian.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Maybe,” Mickey replied. “So you’re in a shitty mood cause you weren’t able to get floor licking drunk with your work buddies?”

Ian sighed. “Sorta.”

“Gonna make me work for this, huh?”

“No, it’s just…a long fucking story and I don’t know where to begin.”

“Once upon a time…”

That actually got a small smile from Ian, which lightened his mood enough for some clarity to return. “Once upon a time, I was fucking normal, planning to be an Officer in the army, then one day I woke up in a psych ward and realized that happily ever after was never gonna happen for me.”

Mickey gestured around his bar again. “Unlike all these assholes who are just waiting for a fairy godmother to turn them into pumpkins.”

The last dregs of anger dissipated with that ridiculous comment, and Ian sighed. “I know other people got shit going on too. It’s just...I got mental problems and I’ve been trying to stay on the meds this last year, so I can at least function but it sucks. Stupid side effects.”

“No doubt. What set you off tonight though?”

“Well, mental illness is a pretty common reason people call the paramedics, so it came up in conversation while we were hanging out.” He squeezed the beer glass. “As a joke basically. Comparing horror stories about all the crazies they’ve encountered on the job.”

“Ah, so they don’t know you've got...whatever you’ve got?”

“Bipolar.”

“‘Kay.”

“No, and that’s another thing. I fucking lied, Mickey. On the application.”

“You didn’t fess up?”

“No, cause who’s gonna hire a fucking mental patient.”

“I thought you lived at your folk’s place.”

“Well, now I do, but I was admitted for treatment less than two years ago.”

“And since then?”

“Been medicating myself for awhile.”

“Sounds like you figured shit out. Seem fucking fine to me.” He sucked on his lower lip for a beat, watching Ian lean heavily on his palm. “Look, you got something wrong with you that you’re dealing with, handling. We used to have a guy delivering beer who had like, a fucking physical disability, but he found ways to haul 30 pound cases of beer. Best delivery guy we had.”

Ian watched him as he spoke, believing that Mickey believed what he said even if Ian felt like there was a world of difference between that story and Ian’s story. “Do you ever lie, Mick?”

“Why the hell would I? Someone doesn’t like what I got to say, they can go fuck themselves.”

“I should try that.”

“Try what? Fucking yourself?”

They broke down in laughter simultaneously, while the rest of the bar watched them in puzzlement. Eventually, they quieted. The release that it gave Ian signalled a yawn and he realized how tired he was and how early he had to get up for his shift tomorrow.

“Thanks for always listening to my bullshit.”

He pulled his wallet from the pocket of his jean jacket intending to square up his bill, and a business card with a faded rainbow pattern dropped to the bar top.

Mickey tipped his head to read the card. “You working with at-risk youth now too?”

“Uh, no, a guy gave it to me,” Ian explained, tucking the card back into his wallet. “We were doing a CPR session at his center. I think he wanted more than CPR though. Told me to call him.”

Mickey didn’t respond immediately, so Ian handed him a ten dollar bill.

“You gonna?” Mickey asked, waving off the money. “Call him?”

“Maybe. He seems like a decent guy, helping queer kids and stuff. Plus it’s been awhile, ya know?”

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Mickey, who was doing that lip licking thing he did when he was thinking about Ian’s announcements. With a small smile, Ian slid off his bar stool, feeling queasy, but he decided it was probably just lack of sleep and residual worry over whether his bipolar was going to fuck up the good things in his life.

“I guess I’m just not cut out to be a bachelor, like you,” he said, stuffing an arm into his jacket.

“Yeah, being a bachelor ain’t for the faint of heart,” Mickey said. “Get some sleep, man. Early morning tomorrow, yeah?”

Unlike the scowl he’d had on his face when he arrived, Ian left the bar with a smile because Mickey had remembered his work schedule.

******

When Ian opened the door to the familiar low lighting, 80s rock and usual faces, he realized just how important it was to him that he had some place to go when he felt so unsure about himself, his life, his decisions. Mickey always seemed to know just what to say which, Ian smiled to himself, was basically just Mickey speaking his mind.

The smile on Ian’s face dipped a little when he looked at Mickey’s usual spot behind the bar though. He was leaning both elbows on the bartop so he could listen intently to whatever the guy on the stool across from him was saying.

While this was basically how Mickey spent his working life, this seemed kind of intimate and natural, like more than the usual bartender and patron gab session, or even, Ian realized, more than simple friendliness.

He wanted to flee as insecurity racked his body, but before he could retreat, Mickey glanced up to see who had arrived and he nodded hello at Ian. In the second their eyes met, Ian felt relief because Mickey looked pleased to see him. But the relief was short lived when he returned his attention to the man on the stool and Ian was left to make his way to his usual bar stool--like a customer.

As sneakily as possible, he checked out the man, deciding that he passed the hotness test with flying colors and clearly passed the gayness test if his body language was any indication. He held a sniffer of something amber, probably whisky, that he twirled slightly as he listened to Mickey finish a story about some cat named Damien.

“‘Sup Gallagher?” Mickey finally asked, still rooted to his spot but his eyes swept over Ian’s face. Probably looking to see if he was here to unload yet another life crisis. “Jerkface?”

Ian’s apparent competition laughed as he set the now empty sniffer onto the bartop, making sure his fingers grazed Mickey’s forearms in the spot that always seemed to catch Ian’s attention too. But Mickey’s attention was on Ian as he waited for a response.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” Ian glanced around at the nearly empty bar, unsure where to let his eyes land. He didn’t want to seem rude but he just didn’t know what to do with his reaction to seeing Mickey close to someone else and sharing a story that Ian himself had never heard.

As usual, Ian wanted to kick his own ass for forgetting that Mickey had a life. Other friends. People. Guys. A life that had absolutely nothing to do with Ian. He must be desperate for attention if that thought could fuck him up as badly as it was.

Mickey’s friend/lover/whatever slid off his stool, nodding at Mickey while putting his jacket on. “See you later?” he asked Mickey, who nodded in return. Then he left and Ian wondered if _later_ meant some random future time or if it meant hanging out upstairs after his shift.

Ian’s beer arrived, but he wasn’t really in the mood to chat, or more accurately, the shit he wanted to chat about was none of his damn business. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth, _who the fuck was that_ and _I thought you were a fucking bachelor_ for life, would fall out of it and Mickey would second guess his decision to allow Ian into his life.

Mickey gave him a long look, but had a drink order to fill, so Ian drank in silence, zoned out on his own self-pity until a hissed curse got his attention.

“Fuck,” Mickey spat, holding a cloth to his palm. “Who sharpened the goddamn knife?”

Ian moved around to the back of the bar, just as Kass arrived. “Your brother worked last night. You know he’s got a thing for playing with the knives.”

“Fucking idiot,” he said, letting Ian take his hand and pull the saturated cloth away. “He’s lost the tip of two, _two_ , fingers. Never learns shit.”

Pressing the cloth back into Mickey’s palm, he asked Kass to grab the first aid kit while he held Mickey’s palm under the tap adjusting until warm water flowed. “Is your brother out of jail then?”

“Which one?”

“The one in jail,” Ian explained, watching the water begin to run clear over his palm.

“Yeah, which one?”

“You got more than one in jail?”

“Yup.” He hissed a little when Ian patted the wound with a square of paper towel. “But no, they’re still in jail. Different brother working my nights off.”

Ian nodded, unhooking the latch on the kit in search of antiseptic ointment. “I forget that you have nights off,” Ian laughed until the hot guy’s face danced in his mind. “You hang out with anyone last night?’

God, he hoped it sounded casual because he didn’t want to make things weird. Yet he was clearly experiencing jealousy that someone else might be spending time with Mickey, and he was not about to examine why for fear he might not like that side of himself.

He got two raised eyebrows, then another hiss. “Jesus, Ian, you tryna kill me?”

“Needs pressure, Mickey.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to work now?” He scowled at his hand, which was still clasped tightly in Ian’s so he could cover the gauze in adhesive tape.

Once done, Ian released his hold, sifting through the first aid kit for a single latex glove and mini scissors. He cut the fingers off the glove, and carefully slipped it over Mickey’s hand.

“Well, shit, Gallagher, you did learn something useful in those books.” Mickey flexed his fingers, nodding when the bandage remained intact behind the glove. “Nice.”

“More than just glucose levels.” Ian stuffed the first aid contents back into the kit, his mind on the unanswered question. But he bit his metaphorical lip since it was really not any of his business what Mickey did or didn’t do on his off time. Even as a friend, Mickey deserved his privacy and Ian would respect that. Even if it fucking killed him.

Ian returned to his usual seat to watch Mickey gingerly continue cutting up limes. “Gonna cut Iggy’s finger off myself,” he grumped. “So, Gallagher, what’s new? You go out on that date or what?”

Ian shot him a look, since it was like Mickey was reading his mind and asking the question burning in Ian’s mind.

“Uh, yeah, we went to a club.” He watched Mickey’s knife pause then resume the slow slide through the various citrus fruits he had lined up on the counter space. “Dunno though.”

Mickey finally looked at him. “Too much of a do gooder?”

Ian shrugged, embarrassed to be talking about his love life with Mickey, so he decided to just sum it up without getting into the details of their date or their awkward discussion at Ian’s house the next day. “I guess you could say he’s not my type, and he was kinda pushy about it.”

“Pushy how?” When Ian tipped his chin to avoid looking at Mickey, he continued. “Spill it, man. I can always tell when you got shit in your head that you think is fucked up, so you don’t want to tell me.”

Since getting it out of his head, and into Mickey’s, seemed to always make things better, he relented quickly. “He wanted to, you know, do _stuff_.”

“Stuff?” Mickey grinned at him then pulled his away finger quickly, giving the knife an angry scowl.

“Pay attention!”

“Then stop being such a dork.” He waved his bandaged hand at Ian like he was proving his point.

“Fine! He wanted to fuck and I don’t wanna do that. Yet. Maybe ever. I don’t know!”

“Then don’t!”

“I won’t!”

“Good!” Pointing the little knife at Ian, Mickey added, “And don’t let him do that mind fuck shit on you like douchebag.”

Ian nodded, looking down into his beer glass. Would he be able to detect if someone was mind fucking him? He thought about all the conversations he’d had in this bar, wondering if he’d be able to tell if Mickey was pulling that shit on him. He’d just told Ian what to do essentially, but somehow it didn’t feel like he was pressuring Ian.

“Thinking again, Gallagher?”

“Fatal flaw.”

******

“Motherfucker,” Ian spat, tossing his jacket at the empty bar stool, imagining picking it up by the padded seat and tossing it through the bar’s plate glass window. “Goddamn fucking asshole.”

“Nice to see you too,” Mickey said.

“Not you.”

“Are you sure? Those are two names that I’ve worked hard to earn.”

Ian actually cracked a small smile, which amazed him, since rage and indignation were nearly choking him. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Well, who gets the honor then?” he asked, setting a half filled glass of beer in front of Ian.

“Douchebag number two _and_ my own fucking mother.”

“Woah.” Mickey held up a hand. “Kass, going for a smoke.”

“Sure. Hey Ian.”

Ian waved at her, then grabbed his smokes to follow Mickey out the back door.

They lit up, finally able to enjoy a smoke without the winter chill. Ian inhaled and started to relax. “Sorry, I keep coming in here and dropping my problems in your lap. You must fucking roll your eyes when I leave.

“Hey, I thought you said I wasn’t a fucking asshole.”

Ian smiled around his cigarette.

“In fact,” Mickey said slowly, looking thoughtful. “You called me your friend as I recall.”

“God, more like my best friend.” Ian wanted to smack his palm into his forehead like the loser he clearly was. “I just mean, you’re like...I don’t even know. Pretend I didn’t open my mouth.”

Inhaling deeply on his smoke, Mickey grinned at him. “So what happened tonight?”

“I went out with that guy a couple more times for some fucking reason,” he began, feeling the anger rise again. “We had plans to go to a club again tonight, and just as we were getting ready to go, my fucking mother calls. Haven’t seen her in forever, and she weaseled her way into going to the club with us.”

Mickey smirked. “Sounds like an amazing evening. What’s the problem?”

When Ian started to laugh, he wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to stop. His arm wrapped around his waist as his abs ached with each contraction, and Mickey simply watched, eyebrows lifted in amusement.

“You gonna be okay, Gallagher?”

“Yeah.” He wiped his eyes with his forearm, while acknowledging that he felt a million times better now that he’d released some pent up emotion. “Anyway, he invited Monica to come along. Which on the one hand was okay with me since she could be a buffer, ya know? On the other hand though, she’s a fucking loose cannon so the night could have gone in any direction.”

“And she fucked shit up?”

“Not in the way I thought. God, it’s a long story, Mick.”

Mickey held up his smoke. “I ain’t going anywhere for about five more minutes.”

“Okay.” Ian puffed on his own smoke as he gathered his thoughts so he didn’t end up spewing all his poison at Mickey. “So the guy, turns out is trans, and he doesn’t have the right ID to get into the club and I didn’t get it right away and he got fucking mad and Monica took his side and I lost my shit on her for some goddamn reason and he took her side. Told me to get the fuck over the shit she’s pulled. Like he knows anything about me or her.”

Since it all rolled out of Ian’s mouth like one long syllable, he gasped a little for air when he finished and avoided looking at Mickey because he’d still managed to spew too much poison.

“Did you clock ‘im?”

“No, I gave them both the finger and walked here.”

“Good call. So what shit are you supposed to get over?”

“The usual.” When Mickey lifted his eyebrows in question, Ian added, “South Side parenting. Abandonment, neglect, the _usual_. We got some extra special shit cause we share the same mental illness.”

“You didn’t get her a Number 1 Mom mug?”

Ian felt everything he’d tried to hold in for the last few years boil over. “Only if I wanted to still be fucking manic and homeless, selling my fucking body for drugs or a place to stay.”

He could see something change in Mickey’s expression, and of course, Ian’s first thought was that he’d shared too much, but Mickey dropped his smoke, crushing it with his boot before stepping in front of Ian. His warm hands cupped Ian’s face, pulling it close so he could wrap his arms around Ian’s shoulders and squeeze tight.

“I’m glad you walked through my door that day, Ian.”

“Fuck,” Ian whispered into his shoulder. “Me too, Mick.”

******

“Hey, Gallagher. What’s up?”

Ian stared up at his bedroom ceiling, cell phone pressed to his ear so tightly that it was starting to ache. “Hi Mickey. Sorry, I know it’s your night off.”

With a muffled exhale, he chuckled. “You’re allowed to talk to me when I’m not slinging drinks, man.”

“Yeah, I know, but when I called the bar, Kass said you were, um, going out.”

“Well, I’m not out yet, so what’s up?”

Ian sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the double bed. He felt both exhausted and antsy, unable to focus, and now he was worried about feeling like a burden for bothering Mickey on his downtime.

“Actually, I’ll just let you go since you got plans or whatever.” He could hear his family talking downstairs. Whatever they were doing included banging shit around, and it was making Ian’s head ache even worse. “We can talk tomorrow.”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that whatever you’re not telling me is pretty fucking important if you tracked me down by fucking telephone. So I’m just gonna worry about you all goddamn night anyway.”

Resisting the urge to apologize again, he spit it out. “Monica, my mom...died.”

“Jesus!” Ian could hear the _beep beep beep_ of a car door opening. “When?”

“I just found out, like less than an hour ago. She had a...an aneurysm, I guess.”

“Shit, man, I’m sorry. I know it was rough sometimes but she’s still your mom.”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to do something? Come over maybe?”

Ian’s heart actually shot up to his throat and he choked up, feeling tears push but he sucked them back down into the place he kept all the things that hurt too much to think about.

“Thanks, but it’s okay. The house is a zoo and we gotta plan shit. I just...you were actually the first person I wanted to tell.” The only person, if Ian was being honest with himself. “I guess I wanted to hear your voice telling me everything was gonna be okay.”

“Everything is gonna be okay, Ian.”

He smiled a little for the first time since getting the news, until a muffled voice carried through the phone followed by rustling that sounded like Mickey covering the phone speaker for a few seconds.

“You sure you don’t need me to come over? I can cancel my plans,” he said once the background noise quieted.

“No, like I said we gotta do shit, and I’m probably still in shock.”

“Yeah, my, uh, mom’s dead too.”

“Oh, Mick, why can’t I ever be a good friend, for fuck’s sake? How do I not know that about you?” He stood up, pacing in the tight space between the bed and the dresser.

“Cause I never told you.”

“Why?”

“Happened more than 10 years ago. Not something I lead with in a conversation.”

“But still, I’m such a--”

“Shut the hell up, Gallagher. Stop dissing my taste in friends.”

The beeping of the car door returned. Ian wanted to push aside his need to be where Mickey was and allow the man to live his fucking life, but he just wasn’t made for self-control of that magnitude.

“Okay, I’ll let you go then so you don’t keep your date waiting,” Ian said, looking at himself in the dresser’s mirror certain he’d see embarrassment and agitation but all he saw was his usual array of freckles and red 5 o’clock shadow.

“Yeah, he gets pissy when I keep him waiting.”

Turning away from his reflection, Ian tried to come up with a response that wouldn’t reveal how much he hated the idea of Mickey having someone special in his life, but he responded before Ian.

“Asshole thinks his first night out of the joint is as big a deal to me as it is to him. Maybe it would be if he actually stayed out for longer than five fucking minutes.”

“It’s your brother?” Ian breathed his relief into the phone.

“Yeah, he’s got his stupid mug pressed against the passenger window like I’m gonna feel fucking sorry for him.”

The tears Ian had been holding onto started to escape and he didn’t want to put that shit on Mickey, so he swallowed them down to say good-bye. “Have fun and say hi from...your friend. Thanks for listening.”

“Let me know how shit’s going or I’m gonna worry.”

“I will.” This time he wasn’t able to keep his voice from revealing his tears.

“It’s gonna be okay, Ian. _Promise_. Text me later.” He hung up without waiting for Ian to reply, and Ian was grateful that he understood.

******

Opening the passenger’s side door of Kev’s truck where he’d stashed two big bouquets of flowers, Ian handed one to Mickey before picking up the other one for himself. “Thanks for meeting me here,” he said, looking up into the blue sky with a long calming exhale.

“Sure.”

Mickey scrunched up his nose a little as the floral scent surrounded them, and Ian smiled into the flowers, knowing there was no one else in the world he’d want to do this with, which was weird because he had five siblings who shared the same mother.

“You talk to the dude in the office about where to find your mom’s, uh, burial spot?” Ian asked.

“Yeah.” He held out a map with a dark circle around Section M. “We startin’ with my mom?”

Ian nodded, feeling a little awkward that he and Mickey’s first time meeting outside the bar was in a cemetery with a hundred dollars worth of stargazer lilies in their arms, even if they were pretty spectacular.

“Good choice of flowers, Mick.”

Ian had narrowed the bouquet options down to four then texted photos to Mickey from the florist shop, wanting him to participate in the decision making. Mostly because Ian really didn’t have a clue what kind of flowers were appropriate to say good-bye to your mother. Monica had never really been around long enough to decorate their house with any, and Frank showed his love by getting high not sending flowers.

When Mickey looked up from studying the map, Ian decided that the vibrant blue of the flowers almost matched his eyes, which he felt was something he’d known in the flower shop but hadn’t fully acknowledged. “Beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Ian whispered against the tightness in his throat.

“Ready to do this, Gallagher?” With the map dangling at his side now, Mickey pointed toward a wrought iron fence surrounding a copse of trees. “It’s that way.”

“Not far from Monica then.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

Eyes flicking away from each other, they turned toward the dirt path, walking side by side with the late morning sunshine warming their faces. Despite the sadness hovering, everything felt right to Ian. He was taking his first step in being okay with Monica’s death, and he was doing it exactly like he knew he should.

When Mickey led them off the path and between two headstones, Ian stopped several paces away out of respect, figuring Mickey would want to do this on his own, without Ian hovering around. But his eyebrows shot up in expectation and only lowered when Ian moved to stand directly beside him. They remained quiet for several minutes, until Mickey released a sigh and squatted down to lay the flowers on the freshly cut grass.

Ian studied the top of his head, wanting so badly to touch him in some way, to feel a physical connection. To remind him that Ian was here and that he understood, but that seemed dumb because Mickey knew all that. Instead, he read the writing on the headstone, doing the math quickly and determining, sadly, that Mickey’s mom was a whole decade younger than Monica when she died.

Shaking off the image of Mickey without a mom at such a young age, he said quietly, “Laura Marie Milkovich. It’s nice to meet you.”

Mickey glanced up at him, blue eyes even brighter than they had been at the van. Knowing why, Ian touched his fingertips to the tense shoulder feeling it relax under his touch.

“What now?” Mickey asked.

Ian hesitated because he hadn’t actually thought it through this far. “Do you wanna say something?”

“To you?”

“Uh, no, to her.”

“Like what?”

Ian shrugged, at a loss. “Like how you’re feeling?”

Mickey stood up, looking around the cemetery then down at his mother’s grave. Ian kept his head bowed, determined not to interfere even when the moment dragged on for a bit.

“Fuck, I miss you.”

Tears gathered furiously in Ian’s eyes at the sound of his strained voice, so full of emotion. The urge to touch him again was so intense that Ian clutched the bouquet in his hands to keep them from pulling Mickey against his body.

“Sorry for, you know, not visiting,” Mickey continued, voice firmer. “Brought you some flowers. Can’t remember if you even like ‘em. Next time, I’ll bring you a 2-6 of Jack...anyway, hope you found what you were looking for.”

Ian’s heart thudded hard at the realization of what Mickey had just said, and what that kind of loss must have meant to a ten year old kid. Before Ian could decide if he should say something supportive, Mickey nodded and started walking slowly back toward the path.

“Come on, Gallagher.”

Ian joined him, bending a little to search his face for evidence of how he was feeling. Their eyes met and Mickey winked at him.

“That was all right,” he said quietly.

Smiling a little, Ian allowed himself a moment of self-congratulations for taking a chance and asking Mickey to do this with him. He’d woken up with the idea and almost allowed his doubt to make the decision for him, but when he’d checked his phone, he found one unread text left while he’d been sleeping. All it said was “Jerkface,” and Ian had decided to trust himself.

Their steps slowed as they reached the section where Monica was buried. When Ian saw how obvious it was that her grave had been tampered with, he was even more grateful that Mickey had agreed to do this with him. At some point, he was going to have to process what he and his siblings had done last night but not today. Not now.

Mickey stopped abruptly when he realized that Ian was headed toward the mound of displaced dirt that had not been properly leveled. “What the fuck, Ian?”

“Another long story, Mick.”

He met Ian’s eyes. “Tell me later?”

“Yeah. Over a beer.”

“Okay. I might even let you have a Wallbanger,” he teased lightly then stepped closer to the uneven headstone bending a little to read it. “Monica Jean Gallagher. Nice to meet you.”

The urge to hold on to Mickey, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in the other man’s shoulder, was so fucking strong that Ian couldn’t move. It filled his body and mind, overshadowing everything else.

“You got this, Ian.”

 _Because you’re here with me_ , he wanted to say. Instead he released a breath through tight lips and laid the flowers on the grass, before getting on his knees to smooth out the dirt that covered his mother. His hands moved rhythmically, deliberately, focusing on the slight abrasion of tiny pebbles against his palms to keep the tears in check.

Mickey gave him a moment to do this before grasping the edges of the granite headstone, twisting it a little back and forth until it settled level in the dirt. “Looks like a hurricane hit.”

Ian stopped messing with the dirt to laugh, head tipped up to the bright sky and eyes closing against the sun’s rays. He felt tears slip from the corner of his eyes, but he didn’t try to stop them because some of his sorrow escaped too. “God, that was her nickname. Hurricane Monica.”

“In life and death, apparently.”

Opening his eyes at the sound of Mickey’s voice, he found the other man standing close, looking down at him and Ian wanted to cry. Hard. He wanted to let everything fucking go because someone finally had his back in a way he’d longed for all his life.

But the urge to bawl passed when Mickey reached down for the bouquet of flowers then held his hand out to Ian, offering to help him to his feet. Ian scrubbed his palms against his jeans, leaving behind dirty streaks, before accepting the hand and the flowers. He sniffed them once, deeply, wanting to embed every one of his senses with this memory.

Their hands remained entwined when Ian bent down to slip the bouquet of flowers into the little holder at the side of the headstone. “Well, Mom...rest in peace.”

He really hoped that was possible. She’d done a lot to fuck up her kids, but Ian had experienced firsthand what it was like to walk in her shoes, and he couldn’t quite hate her. It felt a little too close to hating himself.

As they headed back to the truck, awareness settled between them and they let go of each other’s hands but refused to increase the gap between their shoulders.

“Where’s the rest of your family?” Mickey asked when they reached the vehicle.

“It’s complicated.”

“What isn’t?”

“You.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Can’t say the same about you, man,” he teased and Ian hated even imagining where he would be if he hadn’t walked into Mickey’s bar that night.

“I need to send douchebag some flowers too,” he decided.

“Oh yeah, why’s that?”

“Cause if he hadn’t cheated, I might never have met you.”

Mickey nodded. “Sign my name to the card too.”

******

Ian wanted to yank the fucking steering wheel out of the bus driver’s hand. He’d thought that the bus would be faster than the train, but the old man behind the wheel wasn’t on the same page. As Ian’s anxiousness soared, he wondered if the guy was deliberately slowing and letting every car in Chicago pass him, just to fuck with Ian.

Gritting his teeth, Ian stared out the window at the passing buildings, reminding himself that it wasn’t a _real_ emergency. Not life and death anyway. It’s just that he might lose his fucking mind if he didn’t get to Mickey in the next two minutes.

“Don’t you have a schedule to keep?” Ian snapped at the driver from where he hovered by the front door. There was only one other person on the bus, but no way would Ian be able to sit in any of the empty seats. Standing still was hard enough when his adrenaline spiked like this.

“I suggest you calm down, or you’ll find yourself out on the curb, fella.”

Ian refused to acknowledge the driver as the city crawled past. Instead, he tried to distract his mind by recalling the stuff he’d studied about adrenaline. “Blood vessels contract to re-direct blood toward muscle groups, the heart, lungs…” As he recited this quietly, he also consciously connected with each body part imagining it calming.

He’s been Googling this type of stuff a bit over the last few weeks, wondering if maybe he should be getting some professional help along with his medication. No way he’d ever talk to his siblings about the idea because they seemed to think that kind of help was un-Gallagher, unless it involved admitting yourself to a psych ward apparently. But he was kind of thinking of talking to Mickey about it to see if he thought it was stupid or not. First he had some other shit to talk about though.

They’d parted ways at the cemetery earlier in the day. Mickey had his shift at the bar, and Ian needed to take care of the mess him and his siblings had gotten themselves involved in. The six of them spent the afternoon bickering in the Gallagher kitchen, and Ian had watched them all yelling over each other, unable to reach a decision about what to do with the “legacy” their dead mother left behind.

But Ian had felt like he was watching it all from the outside, a bystander without a stake in the outcome. When they’d dug up Monica’s grave, he’d participated because that’s what the Gallagher siblings did. Respond to shit in a codependent tangle of love and survival. When they began making a plan for the meth, he’d listened to each idea.

But, the thing was, he just didn’t care about any of it. Monica was gone, and that hurt, but he didn’t feel lost or alone anymore. In fact, he felt hopeful and it had everything to do with Mickey. While Fiona and Lip got in each other’s faces, Ian tried to tell himself that having a best friend was exactly what he needed. And while it may have been true at one point, it wasn’t true any longer.

He pictured Mickey leaning on the bar. Twisting the drying rag. Pulling on the beer handle. Smiling over Ian’s success. Frowning over his sob stories. Laughing at the patron’s antics. Saying good-bye to his mother.

Standing so abruptly that his siblings actually shut up for a second, Ian looked at each of their surprised faces, certain that they’d more or less forgotten that he was even there. “I gotta go!” he announced, not even closing the back door behind himself.

Nearly a half hour later when the bus driver finally pulled over to pick up some new riders, Ian figured he was close enough to Mickey’s bar that he could jog the last few blocks rather than remain immobile and helpless on public transportation.

As he pushed through the people waiting at the bus stop, he added getting a car of his own to the top of his to do list. But when his feet hit the pavement, he took off down the street, long legs pumping. He had to leap over a chihuahua, dodge a bike messenger, ignore a Do Not Walk sign and curse more than one driver, but he arrived in one piece.

Sucking in oxygen and ignoring the line of sweat trickling down his spine, he paced outside the bar entrance. Not only was he trying to catch his breath, he was also trying to decide what to do once he stepped inside. He’d been so focused on getting here that he hadn't given much thought to how Mickey was going to react to whatever eventually came out of Ian’s mouth. Was he about to destroy the only real friendship he’d ever had? Was Mickey going to regret ever letting Ian into his inner circle? Was Mickey actually a lifelong bachelor?

Ultimately, he decided it didn’t matter because it just wasn’t possible for him to continue their relationship as friends. It was probably selfish and unfair to Mickey, but he needed more. He needed everything Mickey had to give. Even the thought of what that might include sent Ian’s stomach into a freefall, and he inhaled deeply through his nose, out through his lips.

Mickey’s words from earlier came back to him and he said them out loud. “You got this, Ian. Everything is gonna be okay.”

Riding that tiny wave of determination, he opened the door and stepped inside, eyes immediately on the bar but Mickey wasn’t there. For a split second, he thought he might cry or possibly throw up. His nervous system was taking a hit the last few days that was probably putting him in the danger zone, but he needed to sort this out with Mickey before he could even think of anything else.

“Gallagher?”

 _Oh thank god_ , he whispered, feeling his legs weaken in both relief and fear now that it was happening.

Mickey stood near one of the tables, empty tray in his hand, looking at Ian like he wasn’t sure how to handle this latest odd behavior. Whatever was happening in the rest of the room hadn’t yet processed in Ian’s mind. Between the nervous breakdown occurring in his body and the very real possibility that he was about to kiss Mickey, his brain did not have room for the patrons who turned toward the door when it opened.

“You okay?” Mickey asked, eyebrows knitted in concern.

“I can’t be your friend,” Ian blurted loud enough to be heard over the chatter and softly playing rock music. “I’m sorry.”

Mickey dropped the serving tray to the table, eyes never leaving Ian so he saw the storm begin to brew in them. “What are you fuckin’ talking about?”

“I realized that--” He stopped abruptly when the weight of a dozen sets of eyes finally penetrated the single-minded mission he’d been on since standing up in his family’s kitchen. Scanning the room, he found who he was looking for. “Kass?”

“Yes, Ian?” she said, from her position at the register.

“Can Mickey take a break?”

“Be my guest.” Her face split into a huge grin as she passed him on her way to where Mickey stood gawking at Ian instead of clearing dirty glasses. “‘Bout bloody time, Ian.”

He frowned at her. “What?”

“Hey asshole,” Mickey bit out. “You might wanna ask _me_ if I wanna take a break.”

Straightening his shoulders, Ian did. “Mickey, will you take a break with me?”

“Sure.” Tossing the always present towel at the bar, he made his way toward the back door, but Ian took a hold of his bicep to steer him toward the back stairwell.

“Can we go upstairs? Have some privacy?”

Mickey looked at him over his shoulder but didn’t argue. He began climbing the stairs, Ian right behind him, acutely aware now of not only Mickey, but Mickey’s body. How had he managed to block out every curve and swell, the definition of muscle through material, the way he moved? And was Ian losing his mind or could he suddenly _smell_ Mickey?

He leaned in toward the broad back from his position two steps below, and inhaled. It was like a goddamn aphrodisiac, which almost made Ian turn around and run because he wasn’t sure that being alone with Mickey right now was a great idea. They needed to figure out what was happening between them. They didn’t need Ian panting and plotting like some animal on the scent.

Pushing open the door to his apartment, Mickey flicked on the light revealing a tiny bachelor pad. The galley kitchen and table lined one wall, a sofa, recliner and TV sat in the middle of the room, and a double bed was pushed against the other wall. Ian absorbed every fucking thing like it was a treasure map. His eyes darted over the items as he tried to figure out what mysteries were being revealed in each silly knickknack dotting the surfaces of his furniture, each booze related sign attached to the walls, each pile of dirty clothes on the floor.

Until he felt the force of Mickey’s gaze on him and knew he had to explain what they were doing in his apartment. He turned toward Mickey, who stood within arm’s reach, and opened his mouth but all that came out was a jumble of wants and needs as his self doubts decided to show up to the party inside his head.

“Mickey, you’re...this…” He waved a hand vaguely between their chests. “I want…but...”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Mickey shook his head, but his lips tipped up slightly. “You finally gonna kiss me or what?”

His stomach dropped again in anticipation and fear.

“But I’m a fucking mess,” he moaned, worried now that Mickey didn’t fully understand what it would mean to saddle himself with Ian. “You really want to deal with all my crazy shit?”

“Yup,” Mickey agreed. “Now c’mere.”

Ian did as he was told, stepping forward and lifting his hands to Mickey’s cheeks. The last thing Ian saw before he closed his eyes was a smile on Mickey’s lips. After that it was all feeling, the press of their lips, Mickey’s hands on his back, the constriction around his heart.

Their breath was loud in his ears as he pulled away slowly, letting Mickey shove his jacket over his shoulders then Ian’s arms came around Mickey’s waist, pulling him close and meeting his lips again. This time though, he opened his mouth, tongue sinking into Mickey’s. He could hear the erotic sounds of the kiss, and it felt almost surreal that he was making those sounds with Mickey. That it was his mouth, his tongue moving against Ian’s.

A sort of wildness swamped his body and his hands slipped down to cup the firm ass, using his grip to seal their bodies and move them toward the sofa. He could feel Mickey’s arms tighten around his neck, dragging his mouth closer as they fell down to the cushions. Ian sunk into Mickey’s body, just letting himself be cocooned by his arms and legs and beating heart. He wanted to stay here forever but knew they needed to talk. To make sure they understood each other.

“Mickey.” He had to pull his tongue out of Mickey’s mouth to say this, but he wasn’t quite ready to disconnect their lips so he felt Mickey’s reply as well as heard it.

“Ian.”

Their eyes opened and Ian lifted himself a few inches. “We should talk about--”

“The fact that I thought you were gonna friend zone me forever, jerkface.”

Ian smiled down at him. “Yeah. What was I thinking?”

Mickey’s hand moved from the back of Ian’s head to his cheek, which he tapped twice. “You needed a fucking friend, not a complication.”

“Suppose,” he agreed, pushing all the way to a sitting position even though every inch of his body craved Mickey’s at the moment. “I certainly couldn’t have found a better one.”

He watched Mickey slide his body along the sofa cushion until he was leaning against the arm, sneakers pressed to Ian’s thigh.

“You know we can still be friends,” Mickey said. “Just because I want your dick in my ass doesn’t mean you can’t still tell me all your sob stories.”

“God, how long until I can do that exact thing?” He pressed the back of his head into the sofa and groaned, trying not to think of all the lost time.

“Do what? Tell me a sob story while your dick’s in my ass?”

“Stop saying that,” Ian groaned again, unable to look at Mickey for fear he might pounce. So he studied the patterns of water stains on the ceiling, thinking. “Is this, what we’re doing now, a friends with benefits thing?”

He felt the sofa cushions shift and knew Mickey was moving toward him, so he scrunched his eyes closed like a kid who could pretend something doesn’t exist if he can’t see it. Knowing that Mickey and his body existed was a little more than he could handle at the moment. But the weight of Mickey’s ass on his thighs and the pressure of his hands on Ian’s shoulders forced his eyes open. They met Mickey’s and Ian dropped his hands to the strong thighs, squeezing tightly.

“I don’t want it to be,” Ian said truthfully. “I know what I feel when I’m with you and it’s way more than friendship, so if that’s--”

Mickey kissed him this time. Crushing his lips into Ian’s and forcing his head back against the sofa again. Ian immediately forgot his question and the fact that he hadn’t gotten an answer, while his hands stroked the sides of Mickey’s thighs, moving up to his hips so he could pull him tighter against his body.

They were separated by jean material, but he could still feel Mickey getting hard and he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt tugging up, up, up until he pulled away from Ian to help get the shirt over his head. Ian scanned his chest and belly then sat forward, searching for the hem of his own shirt. Once it, too, was gone, he pulled Mickey down to his mouth and arched his back enough that their chests could touch. His hand was on his belt when a loud commotion from downstairs brought him back to reality.

“Shit,” Mickey spat.

“Is everything okay down there?”

“Yeah, Kass can fuck up anyone who misbehaves, but probably should go help.” Mickey was taking the opportunity to study Ian’s chest now and tracing a finger around his nipples, which caused Ian’s hips to roll up against Mickey’s ass. “Damn, Gallagher.”

Ian’s hands were still wrapped around his hips, so he used them to subtly shift Mickey’s body backward and forward. “Yeah. Are we coming straight back up here the second the bar closes?”

“Hell yeah, we are.”

“Good,” he paused his movements to look at Mickey. He hadn’t gotten an answer to his question. Instead he’d dropped into Ian’s lap, grinding his ass into him. If Mickey had wanted to answer it, he would have, leaving Ian afraid to ask it again. Afraid that he'd fallen in love with a guy who didn't ever want a real romantic relationship. 

They were motionless now, and Mickey watched Ian with his direct stare. “Fuck, Ian. Course we’re not friends with benefits.”

Ian swallowed so hard, he was sure Mickey could hear it. “Then what are we?”

“Gonna make _me_ say it, huh?”

His fingers had to be bruising Mickey’s hips by this point and neither of them had looked away.

“Fine. You wanna be boyfriends?”

Ian pushed away from the sofa so he could wrap his arms tightly around Mickey’s body and press his face into the firm muscle of his chest. When he felt a hand on his hair, he smiled. Apparently, he was becoming a soft motherfucker.

“Okay, let’s help Kass before she disowns you.”

Mickey slid off his lap, taking his warmth and his t-shirt with him. As he tugged it over his head, Ian watched the movement of his biceps and his pecs until they disappeared from sight and were replaced with raised eyebrows.

“Getting dressed, Gallagher?”

Ian reached across the sofa for his t-shirt, making sure to pull it over his head as slowly as possible in case Mickey was as interested in looking at Ian’s body too. He poked his head through the opening in the neck of the shirt and grinned, delighted by what he saw on Mickey’s face.

“You ready to go down there after the grand fucking entrance you made, Romeo?”

Giving his hair a pat, Ian grimaced. “Sorry, I was watching my siblings bicker over what to do with the meth, and all I could think about, _literally_ , all I could think about was being with you.”

Mickey smiled softly at him, then his eyebrows shot up. “Meth? Fuck. You’re gonna be a handful, aren’t you?”

“Probably,” Ian agreed but a smile crept onto his face as he dropped his hand to the front of his jeans and squeezed. “More like two.”

“Oh, ho ho,” Mickey laughed. “Don’t make claims you can’t prove, Gallagher.”

Ian sauntered toward the apartment door, giving Mickey a sly look over his shoulder on the way. “Well, you do have petite hands, so make that three handfuls.”

At the door now, Ian watched Mickey lick his bottom lip thoughtfully. “So how many mouthfuls would that be?”

Laughing, Ian pushed his back into the door, pressing his body the full length of Mickey’s and groaning slightly into his mouth. “The bar doesn’t close for five hours,” he whined. “Can you take a lot of breaks?”

“Sure.” His hand was sliding slowly up Ian’s chest toward the back of his neck. “I may need to get some beer from the stockroom too.”

He nodded eagerly. “Oh, yeah. That’s good.”

Mickey grinned, his hand reaching its destination and pulling Ian’s mouth toward his. Mickey’s lips were as soft as he suspected they’d be, and Ian wondered if he would ever completely recover from them.

“Probably be dead tonight,” Mickey said quietly when they came up for air. “Could get Kass to close. Get off early.”

“I’ll wash the glasses and wipe the tables.”

“Floor probably needs mopped. Toilets scrubbed.”

Throwing his head back, Ian laughed. Sure, his dick was screaming at him for attention and he was desperate to get back up here so he could get Mickey completely naked, but he realized Mickey was right. He was still Ian’s best friend.


End file.
